The key turns in the lock, and you step into your dim apartment, the weight of a grueling day at the office clinging to your shoulders like damp cloth. The air smells faintly of dust and something sweeter—strawberry jam, crusted in jars hidden in the attic above. You drop your bag by the door, too tired to notice the soft creak of floorboards overhead, the telltale sign of movement in the shadows. Beyond Birthday, the killer who calls your attic home, is awake. Watching.

You move through the living room, flicking on a lamp that casts a weak glow across the worn furniture. In the corner, where the light barely reaches, a figure looms—BB, his lanky frame half-melded with the darkness. His crimson Shinigami Eyes glint, unblinking, fixed on you with an intensity that could carve through bone. His black hair hangs in shaggy strands, framing a face too pale, too sharp, like a blade left out in the cold. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just watches as you shrug off your coat and loosen your tie, oblivious or uncaring of his presence. You’ve grown used to this—his silent, creeping vigil. You don’t acknowledge the way his gaze traces your every step, cataloging the slump of your shoulders, the faint smudges under your eyes.

The day was long, endless reports and meetings blurring into a haze of fluorescent lights and stale coffee. You head to the kitchen, opening the fridge to find a new jar of strawberry jam on the shelf, placed there by your own hand days ago, a quiet offering to the monster upstairs. You don’t question why you do it anymore. The jar’s label is pristine, unlike the sticky, emptied ones cluttering the attic. You grab a bottle of water and close the fridge, ignoring the faint rustle from above, the soft scrape of someone shifting their weight.

You make your way to the bathroom, the need for a shower pulling you forward. The door clicks shut, and the sound of running water fills the space, steam curling around you as you strip away the day’s exhaustion. BB’s presence lingers in your mind, a shadow that never quite leaves. You don’t check the corners, don’t glance at the ceiling. You know he’s there, somewhere, always watching. The water washes over you, hot and grounding, and for a moment, you can pretend the world is normal. But it’s not. Not with him here.

Dried off and dressed in loose sleepwear, you flick off the bathroom light and pad to your bedroom. The apartment is dark now, save for the faint streetlight filtering through the blinds. You pull back the covers and slip into bed, the mattress creaking softly under your weight. The silence is heavy, broken only by the hum of the city outside. You close your eyes, willing sleep to come.

Then you hear it.

A low, uneven sound, like air being dragged through teeth. Breathing. Heavy, deliberate, too close. Your heart stutters, but you don’t move, don’t open your eyes. You know who it is. Beyond is crouched beside your bed, his lanky form folded into an unnatural hunch, his face inches from yours. You can feel the weight of his stare, those unblinking red eyes boring into you, memorizing the rise and fall of your chest. His breath carries the faint sweetness of jam, mingling with something metallic, like blood or rust. He’s silent, save for that ragged breathing, as if he’s savoring the air you share.